


Five Weddings and a Social Horror

by brutti_ma_buoni



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: F/M, Four Weddings and a Funeral fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:16:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8945023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutti_ma_buoni/pseuds/brutti_ma_buoni
Summary: In which it is time for Bertie to get married, while Jeeves may have feet of clay





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slavetohiscat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slavetohiscat/gifts).



> Plays fast and loose with both Wooster canon and the canon of Four Weddings and a Funeral, so not all events may go as you expect. The necessary funeral does mean killing off a recurring character in the books, I’m afraid, but I hope not someone who will be too sorely missed.

There comes a time in every Bertram’s life when the time is ripe for entering into the solemn and holy state of m. What I mean to say is, eventually, the parson’s mousetrap beckons, the ball and chain tinkle enticingly, and it just seems dashed wrong _not_ to be getting married. 

This time is not the time when Aunts first sniff the air like mastodons on the primeval prairie, and start harrumphingly parading nubile young ladies before the innocent male, expectations rampant. On the contrary, this treatment makes your average carefree young fellow recoil in horror and make dashed careful not to get himself into a compromising situation chaperoned only by a marriage-minded aunt. You will recall that my man Jeeves has rescued the innocent Bertram from more than one such predicament, receiving the thanks of a grateful employer on each and every occasion. 

But there is a season when one’s contemporaries are dropping off the perch like budgerigars after an excess of cuttlefish, and one starts to consider the prospect with rather less of an ears-back, eyes-rolling fear than previously. So it was with Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, in the waning months of the year just past. I had spent the summer at weddings, you see. Weddings in the countryside, where the bride – young Bobbie Wickham in this case, dressed in fifty-nine yards of froth till all one could see of her was the tip of the nose – finally plighted her eternal troth to old Kipper Herring, who looked pink and baffled and pleased as anything. There were weddings in town, ferociously designed, at which _that_ bride (one Madeline Bassett, of whom I may have spoken) drove her pallid and adoring Spode to the altar with a rod of iron, and a similar but more relaxed occasion when my cousin Angela made Tuppy Glossop the happiest man on earth, or so he repeatedly stated whenever she was passing within earshot. They were jolly good occasions. They relieved me of a number of nagging worries from my seamy past, indeed, so that I could look ahead to a future, carefree and filled with little jaunts to Monte Carlo, or indeed Anatole’s finest at Brinkley Court any time I pleased, without fear of embroilment into yet another dashed false engagement designed to make another jealous.

But I couldn’t help but notice that this wave of weddings thinned out the ranks of one’s bachelor contemporaries till they were rather more gap than present, rather like the hair of an old dasher who simply won’t accept he’s bald as a coot at seventy. Well, Bertram is no coot. I recognised what was up, at Bobbie’s wedding as a matter of fact. “The writing on the wall, what?” I said to Jeeves, and I meant it. 

“Mene mene tekel upharsin,” he responded, somewhat unhelpfully. I told him to stop bebopping and bend his great brain to the task. Because I’d met the most simply amazing girl, if you want to know the truth.

Her name was Daphne Ffoulkes-Pennysham, and it says a great deal for her personal loveliness that I was prepared to overlook such a stinker of a nomen. But she also had the greenest eyes, the fairest hair, a smile filled with conspiratorial mischief, and a way of laughing at my jokes which got my right in the you-know-what, just in the perfect way. She was also daughter of a good friend of Aunt Agatha’s, but Bertram the lover laughs at such ghastly adjuncts. My aunts were joined in delight and approval, a statement unprecedented in Wooster history. 

So much for my mindset after Bobbie’s wedding, then, and Jeeves scarcely needed to put the old grey matter to work, for Daffy was transparently delighted to spend time with self, and gave every indication of a reciprocal admiration. It was at the Spode nuptials that a rather gross fly fell into the ointment of enchantment, when Daphne warmly announced she was engaged to another. A shadow fell upon the land, then, I can’t deny, and it wasn’t until Tuppy’s do that I had the heart to look around for solace. Daffy was there, with her Hamish, some offensively Scotch lordling with one of those estates which could cover the whole of Wessex and yet supports about three gamekeepers and a ghillie. I found myself at the most terrifying tableful of former fiancées, all keen to share the Bertram failings with one another. I knew it was time to put an end to my career as a serial jiltee.

And, well, to cut a long story short, I got engaged to Lady Florence Craye again. I can’t deny, it was a blow. But it seemed the thing to do at the time. My own wedding was going to be a rather jolly affair, Hanover Square and the Berkeley and whatnot. I was looking forward to it, aside from the unbreakable bondage of the marital bed, which rather gave me the collywobbles every time I considered it, and my tie, which spent the whole journey to St George’s attempting to strangle me. Most curious, how clothing can be so hostile in times of trial. 

However, most fortunately, the happy event was postponed on the day, due to an untimely death among the congregation present: Sir Roderick Glossop, father of one of the bridesmaids and – you will recall – a renowned nerve specialist with some well-known doubts about the Wooster suitability for matrimony. He always was rather a ruddy and portly soul, the kind just aching to die of an apoplexy at an inconvenient time, so I have no reason to suspect foul play. Dashed convenient, though, a society funeral and period of mourning. The obsequies gave me opportunity to annoy Florence sufficiently to break off our engagement once again, thanks to some judiciously infelicitous commentary about the eulogy and the way the chap giving it goggled on the in-breath. I avoided Jeeves’s eye on giving him this news, and allowed him to dispose of a rather sporting jacket, about which he had been making sharp remarks for some days. Gratitude where it’s due, what? Even though I can’t be entirely certain that it is due on this occasion. Best not to enquire, I think. 

So it was as a carefree bachelor once more that I trotted up to Inverlivery to attend the Daffy-Hamish pairing revels. Inverlivery is one of those improbably Scottish places, full of shortbread and bagpipes, with everything that can’t be shot and stuffed, pinned down and covered in tartan as an alternative. My room was hewn from granite, and contained about fifty stuffed ptarmigans goggling at me from every corner. I had to check the species with Jeeves, having mistaken them for snipe or teal. They weren’t the most conducive of roommates, even in happier circumstances, and I won’t pretend that I spent the night before the wedding in peaceful slumber. 

I however had more on my mind than taxidermy. Noble, heartbroken and as preux as could be, I was prepared to bid dignified and public farewell to the love of my life. Jeeves was especially tactful in assembling the celebratory trappings, so it was a restrainedly elegant Bertram who graced the chilly chapel of Inverlivery. Dove grey, with pewter touches, was the order of the day. Dashed natty, if only I’d been in the mood to enjoy it. 

It was in the midst of the ceremony, whose words were now so familiar to me that I sometimes joined in out of habit, that a small disturbance occurred. 

“Hrrhmphm,” it said. 

“Whit’s that?” said the priest, irritably.

“I should like to object,” said the hrmpher, politely, because we had arrived at that point in proceedings where any fool who cares to is invited to make a chump of himself by speaking up in public to protest against the happy event. 

“Aye?” said the priest again. It had an austere, Scotch kind of sound, as of peaty moorland and witch-burnings. “Whit’s yer objection?”

“I believe that the bride does not wish to get married,” said Jeeves, for it was he who had hrrhmphmed. “I believe that the bride loves someone else. That the bride would like to _marry_ someone else.” He cast a dignified glance in my direction, such that the congregation who had been gawping at him turned to gawp at me instead. I can’t say it was the most enjoyable sensation I’ve ever had. But I cannot deny also that a small flame of hope was kindling in the Wooster breast. Jeeves is the man. Jeeves can plan his way out of any trouble. Such is the foundation of the Wooster firmament. 

“’Izzat so?” the priest spat, sounding rather more Glaswegian than previously. A certain want of holy reticence was creeping into his tone. “D’ye whint to marry another, lassie?”

Daffy turned up her veil, so those glorious eyes were fully revealed and clear to be seen, as she, too, gazed at me. Her laughing mouth curved upwards. My heart leaped.

“Marry _Bertie_?” she said, and laughed with full heart and vigour. She grabbed the hand of her groom, and shook with merriment. “Instead of my lovely, lovely Hamish? And lovely, lovely Inverlivery? Oh, Jeeves. You are a dear joker.”

“Aye, imphm,” said the priest, and picked up where he had left off.

The marriage proceeded accordingly. I can’t deny, I found the reception something of a trial. Half the guests seemed to think I had put Jeeves up to it and were determined that I should know that it had been in terrible taste. The other half were sympathetic, which was worse. Jeeves made himself extremely scarce, as you might imagine. The only comfort, and it was a rummy one, was my Aunt Agatha, who repelled the scolders and sympathisers alike and professed a deep loathing for any girl foolish enough to marry half of Scotland in preference to a lovelorn Wooster. By the time I retired for the night – as early as decency would permit – my head was spinning.

In my chamber, in addition to fifty prematurely-deceased ptarmigans with glassy eyes, was Jeeves. A smaller, less-omniscient Jeeves than before, a Jeeves chastened and shaken even to the naked eye. Also, my luggage, perfectly packed and ready for a getaway. Say what you may about Jeeves, he is practiced at this gig. 

“I am sorry, sir,” he said, in doleful tones. “I believed that in such an emotional moment, Miss Ffoulkes-Pennysham’s true feelings could not but reveal themselves.”

“And they did, Jeeves,” I said, and I will not conceal from you that my tone verged on the reproachful. “And they did.”

“Indeed, sir,” he said. “I have taken the liberty of verifying the existence of a milk train, and secured the services of McAlpine, the chauffeur to convey us to Inverlivery Halt at 4.47a.m. accordingly.” I nodded, perhaps a touch stiffly. While I appreciated his efficiency, he would have to do a great deal to regain my trust. 

“I have also,” he added, “Purchased rather whimsical umbrella in the tartan of Inverlockery, which as you will be aware, sir, is the traditional opponent of Inverlivery in all things, and is locally regarded as the senior estate. I thought it might prove a pleasant memento of your Highland tour.”

My jaw dropped. I had underestimated Jeeves. He had unquestionably dropped a stinker which would remain with the Wooster reputation for decades. But he was attempting to make amends, and I could only welcome them. “Thank you, Jeeves,” I said, voice full of emotion. “I appreciate your support.”

“I endeavour to serve, sir,” he replied. 

I very nearly said something about the scene earlier. It will take time to fade. But fade it must. “Damp, hereabouts, isn’t it?” I said instead. “Monaco would be pleasant at this time of year, don’t you think?” 

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves responded, with the air of a man already planning for the night train. "I had noticed the rain becoming most inclement. It seems to have set in for some time."

I contemplated the cheerless drenching which would greet the happy couple and their guests on the morrow. It was a small thing, but a comfort. It's important to have someone upon whom one can rely, and Jeeves is that man for me.


End file.
